Stole the Whole Night
by comptine
Summary: With the holidays coming around, Francis and Arthur share a quiet night in the library together.


The library is almost upsettingly quiet.

Though, to be fair, Francis is almost certain that he and Arthur are the only ones left in the entire school save for the staff and a few other students forced to stay in the dorms over the break. The Brit is one of these unfortunate people and Francis, being his closest friend, has attempted to delay his departure as long as he could.

Unfortunately, his mother's pleas have finally gotten to him and he is forced to leave tomorrow at noon to skip across the grey Channel and returned to the mainland and his awaiting family. He won't deny that he is excited to see Lucy-Marie and Roxanne as his sisters have probably grown all the more beautiful, but he still feels a tinge of regret for leaving his best friend.

And this tinge of regret was manifesting itself in the inability to take his eyes off of Arthur. Watching the quiet rise and fall of his chest, the way his throat jerked when he coughed (poor thing was getting sick and was in denial), his eyes scanning the pages of the book under his pale fingers and the odd moments where they would flick up to watch Francis back and the Frenchman would have to look away or pretend to yawn and lean back. Yes, these moments were certainly worth wasting his last night simply staring at Arthur instead of heading down to the local pub and getting them both au fait with the signature lager.

"Sorry to interrupt what I'm sure was a very _thoughtful_ reverie but," a quiet voice nudges its way through Francis' thoughts, "I'm almost positive you've spent a good part of the night observing the side of my neck. Is there something there or are you just being incredible rude and _distracting_?"

"A bit of both, rosbif." Francis says, eyes focusing on the delicate green ones boring into him. "You are just very distracting, but do not think that my thoughts were entirely focused on you." Just centring on him with diverging trails.

Arthur snorts and quietly closes his book, tapping a finger against it. By now, he is unruffled by Francis' words and the Frenchman is a little putout that Arthur's neck hasn't turned a shade of pink. Then again, friends eventually learn to live with each other and sexual advances are something much more friendly now. Especially after four years of sharing the same room, numerous classes (Francis wanted to run his family's vineyard; Arthur wanted to start a publishing company) and arguing they had settled quite comfortably into the roles of best friends.

"Penny for your thoughts, then?"

"Musing about family. I miss them and I am excited to visit."

Nodding, Arthur's finger stops tapping and he rolls his palm against the cover of the book and Francis delights in the way his entire hands stretches, skin calloused from riding horses, manning a cricket bat and occasionally engaging in a round of wrestling down near the docks. "I hope they're all well and perhaps a little less feisty."

Francis laughs and leans back in his chair slightly. "Lucy-Marie will never apologise for that."

"I didn't know she was your sister! It was a pub, dark and entirely unexpected."

"That Shirley Temple she doused your hair in was at least reason enough for you to shower."

"I smelt like fruity drinks for days."

Francis smiles. "It was nice." Arthur reaches across and flicks his nose. Recoiling and laughing, the Frenchman rubs at his face. "I am being serious, you smelt wonderful."

There is a pause, Arthur watching Francis intently and oh- did he really just say that aloud? The smirk is there in the green eyes though, miraculously, the Brit's face remains emotionally detached.

"Did I now?"

"Better than you usually do," Francis amends, trying to save the already far gone words, "what is that disgusting thing you coat yourself in every morning?"

The smirk in Arthur's eyes in gone, replaced with a twitch of annoyance that also shows itself in the tightening of his jaw. "It's called deodorant. Better than that sludge you spritz all over yourself."

"_Bleu de Chanel_ is not sludge!" Francis snaps.

Reclining in his chair, Arthur's finger is tapping again. "I may not speak French but I know what _eau de toilette_ translates into."

"Only you would take such an easy swipe _à_ _ma langue romantique_. You and I both know very well that it has nothing to do with the 'washcloset'."

Arthur waves his hand and Francis is once against forced to follow their movement like a violinist and the gestures of his conductor. "Details, it's always details with you! The literal translation is 'toilet water'!"

Huffing, Francis turns away and he is a little lost in what to say because Arthur is right and his mind is trying to find a way around it but he can't so instead he sinks a little into the chair and lets Arthur win this one. Consider it a Christmas gift of some sort.

Again, the library is upsettingly quiet. Comfortable silence. For Arthur, victory; for Francis, sulking. Out of the corner of the eye he is watching Arthur and the other is unaware, staring outside, mouth turned up in a small smile from their scuffle. Francis follows his gaze and watches the snow outside and lets out an involuntary shudder.

"Oh." Arthur makes the small noise and immediately begins rummaging in his bag for something. Francis sighs heavily and hugs himself. He can't wait to get out of this dreary weather to the south of France where it will be at least slightly manageable. "Don't look so sullen, I've just remembered I have your Christmas gift."

He rises and Francis watches him make his way around the table, holding the gift behind his back. "And here I thought we promised that it would be a gift-free celebration-"

"Shut up." Arthur rolls his eyes and puts the light, woven fabric on the table in front of Francis. It's a delicate blue and when Francis runs his fingers over the material is delicate and soft. The Frenchman's eyebrows furrow and Arthur, apparently exasperated, picks up the knitted scarf and wraps it around Francis' neck, tucking it in gently, fingers curling along his jaw as he pulls away.

They stand in silence. Well, Francis sits and Arthur stands. For a very long while and that upsetting hush is now nothing short of awkward.

"Well, if you don't like it you might as well say-"

Francis shakes his head and buries his face into the softness until he is nose deep in the material. "Non- c'est parfait." Arthur frowns and Francis shakes his head, an unwanted flush creeping up his neck and he's very thankful for Arthur's gift. "I mean, it's wonderful. Thank you very much."

The civility between them catches them both off-guard and Arthur rubs his neck, looking away while Francis plays with the fringe at the end, his smile hidden in the blue.

"You're welcome." Arthur says after a long while, reaching across the table, grabbing his book and tucking it under his arm. When he turns back to Francis, his free hand is hesitating mid-air. Francis sees a very prominent scar before the hand is on his shoulder and everything is suddenly much closer-

-and the Brit is kissing him.

Light, but firm and perfectly Arthur, especially with the tiny tremors plaguing the hand at his shoulder. And the silence, first upsetting and lonely, then comfortable and smug, and finally awkward and thankful is all-together perfect as Francis is enjoying the warmth of Arthur's breath against his lips and Arthur is enjoying the smell of sludge.

"Happy holidays, Francis."

_When Francis returns from France, filled with warmth and gifts from his family, Arthur and him start sharing a bed._

_Arthur insists its only because January is too cold._


End file.
